Heartwood
by sinemoras09
Summary: You do not see the forest for the trees. Madara, Hashirama. Gen. Spoilers for chapter 625.


_Author's note: my theory on why Madara left the village. Spoilers for chapter 625  
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1.

Two scarab beetles are fighting on a leaf. Madara watches, crouched low, as the beetles attack each other with fine-pronged antlers, pointed horns digging fiercely into their opponent's sides.

"What are you doing?" Hashirama says, coming up behind him.

The beetle rears its head back, thrusting the clubbed end of its antennae into the other's thorax. "Observing," Madara says, and Hashirama kneels next to him. He claps his hands, delighted.

"They like each other!" Hashirama says. Madara shoots his friend an irritated look - _you cannot be serious_ - but Hashirama has already pushed forward, plucking the two hapless beetles off the leaf and mashing them into each other.

"Now kiss and make up," Hashirama says. He presses the beetles together, belly to belly. The beetles squirm.

"I thought you were going to the meeting," Madara says, rising.

"Oh," Hashirama says. "That." He sets the beetles carefully on a twig then stands, dusting his hands. "Tobirama is mostly running it. I got distracted."

"As is expected," Madara says. "Though I do not understand why your clan still continues to meet in this fashion. The Uchiha sit on the council as well, do they not?"

"It's just politics," Hashirama says. He smiles. "Say. What do you think about a friendly spar?"

"Now?" Madara says, but Hashirama is already clapping him on the shoulder, motioning toward the empty field behind them.

"Peace time does not suit you, my friend," Hashirama says. "Come. I'll be your partner to spar."

xXx

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Friendship does not come easily to Madara, who stares at their allies with thinly veiled contempt. Hashirama makes up for this with good humor and gentle supplication, eventually winning over the neighboring clans.

"Sycophantic adulation," Madara sniffs, as they survey the rest of the village: children peer out from behind bamboo huts while mothers clutch their young, distrustingly. "Really, Hashirama. I do not see why you stoop so low."

"It is to garner allies," Hashirama says. Madara gives him a look, half-scowled under the tangled mass of voluminous hair, and Hashirama laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

Even among the Uchiha, Madara is held with suspicion. After Izuna's death, hushed whispers of _traitor_ and _monster_ fall off the tongue of scandalized villagers, but he does not pretend to care. "It must be lonely," Hashirama says, and it almost startles him - almost, except Madara is used to Hashirama's sort of nonsense. He plucks a wilted leaf from a nearby branch and turns it over in his hand.

"Lonely?" Madara echoes, and Hashirama nods, looking back at him, warm brown eyes reading everything. "What makes you think that I am _lonely_?"

"Because I know you," Hashirama says, and he gives that same smile that makes Madara want to tear his hair and kick things. "You isolate yourself. You do not sit with the others. Even among the Uchiha they speak of your strength, but no one speaks of you as their comrade."

"Because I am their leader."

"Because you cordon yourself off," Hashirama says.

Madara turns and looks out into the center of the village square. There, Hashirama had sprung timbers and built houses for their would-be villagers, Senju and Uchiha and refugees of war, alike. "It must be hard, everyone accusing you of stealing Izuna's eyes like that-"

"Don't," Madara says, because if Hashirama says one more word he is not sure he won't kill him. Hashirama claps him on the shoulder and smiles.

"You are a good brother," Hashirama says. And then his face is serious. Sad. "If I have one regret, it's that we took him away from you."

"Tch." Madara pushes his hand away. "You were always much too soft."

"Better soft than bone-headed, right?"

"Who are you calling bone-headed?"

In the sunlight, Hashirama laughs. Madara grins, despite himself.

xXx

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There is much to do to build a village. Though their clans had joined and a tentative peace had been reached, there still was the matter of the warring countries that had employed them, as well as the fact that a family of shinobi had no other useful skills. "No one knows how to farm?" Hashirama says.

They stare mournfully at the terraces of rice, the rows of slender green leaves beset with the starting rot.

Madara kicks a potato plant with the toe of his foot, the leafy stems wilting and browning at the sides. He activates his sharingan, peering into the dirt.

"They are too close together," Madara says. He closes his eyes, lets his sharingan regress back to the normal iris, before opening them again. "The roots are not given enough room to grow."

"I see," Hashirama says. He sighs, mournfully.

Shinobi are well-suited for hard labor. Backs bent, they push the bulbs of potato roots into the dirt while others dig perfect rows, lined and scraped by weapons repurposed as gardening tools. "Can we not slaughter animals?" Madara says. "Find a wild herd of goats and take the meat?"

"And whose herd are we going to steal?" Hashirama says. "Madara. How did you feed your people, before?"

"We pillaged," Madara says. Hashirama makes a sound that almost sounds like frustration, but Madara tosses a potato bulb, sniffing. "Really, Hashirama. The simplest thing would be to raid the nearest enemy enclave and take what we need. We have the strength in numbers for this."

"So you would jeopardize the peace for a few bags of rice?"

"It was a hypothetical," Madara says. "And what did you do? Don't tell me you grew your own crops," Madara says. "You Senju are as hapless as we are."

"If only there were farmers you could spy on," Hashirama says. "You could use your sharingan to copy their techniques."

"You think we haven't tried?"

"Well your fields do look better than ours."

"Hm, that is true," Madara says. "And unlike yours, we have managed to grow _something_."

"Except that everything is wilting," Hashirama says. Madara rolls his eyes, magnificently.

"Details."

xXx

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2.

Two clans used to roaming, trading weapons skills and warrior tasks for food and bags of rice. They pitched tents made of animal hides and huddled around communal fires, warming their hands and trading stories of war.

Wood grows. Thin stems turn to twisting vines and then thick trucks of trees, and Hashirama conjures timber from thin air, forests of oak and birch, molding chakra like plumes of exhaled breath.

He is the only one of his bloodline limit, and the impracticality of building houses for everyone in the village rears its head when Hashirama nearly collapses after creating the hundredth wooden house, stumbling over the woody platform.

"Idiot," Madara says. Hashirama smiles a sickly little smile and Madara hefts him forward, taking his full weight against his shoulder. "Your chakra is nearly spent. If this were a battle you would be dead, by now."

He watches Hashirama sleep. His face is pale and his breathing is shallow under the thin blanket. Madara watches over him, frowning, before coming to a decision.

Hashirama is resting his head on the table when Madara drops the bag of coins beside him, the loud thud startling Hashirama upright. "What's this?" Hashirama says. Madara shrugs, elegantly.

"War reparations," Madara says. "It is a portion of what we were paid. Consider it a gift. The Uchiha are happy to give it."

"I don't understand," Hashirama says, and Madara rolls his eyes.

"Money," Madara says. "We have no skill in farming and we have no skill in craft. Other than metal work - which is useless, by the way, who would buy weapons besides other shinobi clans? - we have nothing. With this we can purchase what we need. Hire contractors," Madara says. "Surely there are civilians we can bring into the fold."

"Civilians," Hashirama says.

"Farmers," Madara says. "Fishermen. Craftsmen. People who could benefit from our protection."

"Of course," Hashirama says. His face splits into a grin. "Madara, you are a genius! Do you know of any such clans?"

"I know of plenty," Madara says, sniffing, before adding,

"Who do you think we've looted, before?"

xXx

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3.

His father told him stories: of a man who stabs his wife, of a son who strangles and burns his father. Killings of their precious people for the sake of a stronger eye.

"How awful," Hashirama says, and Madara gives him a withering look, before reflecting for an angry, agonized second that perhaps he should have refrained from sharing his clan's deepest, most innermost secrets - when Tobirama somehow ends up standing behind Hashirama.

"Gruesome," Tobirama says, and it takes all of Madara's self-control not to turn around and end him right there, were it not for Hashirama striding toward his brother, first.

"This conversation does not concern you," Hashirama says. He is angry and his face is about a finger's breadth away from Tobirama's. But Tobirama sniffs, bored, peering around Hashirama's shoulder.

"A clan of hate," Tobirama says, and Madara feels it, rage coiling tight in jaw and the muscles of his neck. Tobirama's gaze turns to Hashirama, who is still standing in front of him. "Brother, I do not know why you continue to trust him."

"This village would be nothing without him," Hashirama says.

"This _village_ could do without a gilded monument to some criminal."

The chair clatters. Madara jumps to his feet, sharingan flashing. Tobirama glares.

"And so he threatens me with his brother's eyes," Tobirama says, and Madara springs, one fierce, sudden movement, and his hand slams against Tobirama's neck, slamming him into the wall.

"Madara!" Hashirama says, and he comes between them. Tobirama wheezes.

"You see," Tobirama says, and blood trickles down the side of his lip. "The Uchiha are nothing but rabid dogs. And yet you continue to be seduced by him."

"Brother, I understand your concern, but you're making things worse," Hashirama says. Madara snaps toward him.

"What do you mean, 'you understand'?" Madara says. Hashirama offers him a weak smile.

"You're twisting my words, Madara," Hashirama says. "You know that you're my friend."

But Madara turns and leaves, slamming the door.

xXx

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Both the Uchiha and the Senju pay their dues. It's only after a few months that Madara realizes the Uchiha are paying more.

"Why?" Madara says. He bursts into the room where the Senju are having their meeting: Tobirama and several top advisors stand. "Why are the Uchiha paying more?"

"It is commensurate to the damage you've made," Tobirama says. "Really, what did you expect? The Uchiha has been a rather destructive clan."

"Why was I not informed?" Madara says.

"Madara, please," Hashirama says. "You have to understand, it's for the greater good. Perhaps we could talk about this a bit more calmly-"

"Bullshit," Madara says.

"And again, we see the Uchiha's true nature: rabid dogs, shirking their responsibilities," Tobirama says.

"Tobirama, please-"

"I have had enough," Madara says, and he turns with one swift motion, sharingan turning in his eyes.

Madara is no fool. Though they had ended their conflict with a treaty, the Uchiha had technically lost. War reparations, movable goods, those are the defeated's responsibility. But the other Uchiha just stare at him, confused. "Do you not want to help build the village?"

"Of course I do," Madara says. "But the burden must be shared equally. Not shouldered by the blood of the Uchiha."

"You are just eager to fight," an elder says. "If paying tribute is what is required for peace, then so be it.

Do not be so eager for bloodshed, Madara-san," the elder says. "The eyes will soon betray you."

xXx

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4.

He stands at the foot of Izuna's grave. Behind him, he hears Hashirama step forward, the gentle crush of his friend's footsteps rustling against the wet grass "So you're back," Madara says, without turning. He can imagine Hashirama's face: placid, without the slightest hint of surprise, and he straightens, wiping his hands at the front of his robe. "I find it difficult to believe you find such interest in following me. Perhaps you should find yourself a hobby."

"I was worried about you," Hashirama says. Madara shrugs.

"Such is the way of the Senju, I suppose."

Neither one of them speak.

Izuna's body is not buried here. Madara had already told Hashirama the story: how they had cremated his body, lighting him atop a funeral pyre and sending the burning mass down the length of the Nakano, the blood-stained head-covering draped over his eyes curling and charring with the flames. It was Hashirama who suggested they erect the monument, the symbol of all fallen shinobi on either clan, and Hashirama's earnestness had touched him. Despite himself, he had allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of Hashirama's good intentions. But the monument is unfinished, and what was supposed to be a shrine to heroic sacrifice sits in near ruins: veins grow on half-hewn rock, its polished marble sitting under a layer of dust.

"His gravestone is pathetic," Madara says. "It is dirty and crumbling. I thought we agreed it would be a monument: a testament to the Uchiha's loss and suffering. Instead it is _this_," Madara says, and he looks at Hashirama, pointedly. "Half-remembered and overlooked. Much like the treatment of my clan."

"Give it time, brother," Hashirama says, and Madara prickles. "Soon enough both our clans will appreciate the sacrifices we have made."

"No one remembers him," Madara says, and he feels it: a hand, sure and strong, gripping him on the shoulder.

"Izuna lives within our hearts," Hashirama says, and Madara wants to laugh, wants to spit in the face of the idiot man who stands beside him, spouting worthless platitudes while pasting on that sickening smile on his face. Rage, hurt, and love rise and fall by turns, until Madara is laughing, Madara is crying, anger and rage streaming down his cheeks.

"There is no peace!" Madara says. "Every day, new villages are appearing. Instead of the Uchiha versus the Senju, it is the Hidden Cloud versus the Hidden Leaf. All that's happening is we've increased the scale."

"Madara-"

He pushes Hashirama back, but Hashirama is quicker. One hand grips Madara by the arm.

The hug surprises him. He relaxes for a moment, but then he tightens up again, pushing Hashirama away.

xXx

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"Madara," Hashirama says. They're facing each other at opposite sides of the river, an entire Konoha army against Madara's one. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this."

"I have to," Madara says. Even from far away he can see the look of determination in his old friend's face, in the way he grips his spear and how the light flashes in his eyes.

"You are my brother," Hashirama says, and Madara laughs, mirthlessly.

"My brother is dead," Madara says.

And he pretends not to see the hurt in Hashirama's eyes.

xXx

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5.

It is surprisingly quiet: except for the sound of wind and the flapping frantic sound of torn banners, there is no sound, nothing but the half-gasped wheeze of Madara's breath as he lies on the ground. He is alone. Around him, pieces of armor and other bits of detritus are strewn on the yellow grass, and as he lies on his back his vision comes into focus.

He is dying.

Once, his father led him to the secret room behind the Uchiha monument. In the flickering torchlight, Madara squinted his eyes and knelt in front of the stone tablets, reverently touching the jagged inscription with his fingertips.

At six years-old, Madara knew the meaning of love. Knew it like the jab of sharp metal into the meaty insides of an enemy's flesh. When Izuna died, hands clutching the fabric of Madara's cloak, Madara feels the devastating swell of love upended, torrents of grief and love and loss swirling at the backs of his eyes.

Above him, sky opens in a light rain. A bird flies, and slowly, Madara's eyes crack open. Crusted and painful, a thin trickle of blood drips down the side of Madara's face like tears, and he sees, for the first time, the world through the bruised lens of the rinnegan.

He closes his eyes again, tears spilling down the corners.

xXx

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6.

Two scarab beetles are fighting on a leaf. They fight for dominance, for power and subjugation. They struggle to survive.

"They are too close together," Madara says, staring at the wilted plants in front of him. "The roots are not given enough room to grow. Even the insects are having a tough time of it," Madara says, but Hashirama says nothing, kneeling in the dirt in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Madara says, but Hashirama presses his hand into the soil, infusing chakra into the fallow earth.

"Where should I direct them?" Hashirama says, and Madara startles, surprised, before activating his sharingan.

"There's water about twenty meters below us."

"Perfect," Hashirama says, and soon the roots start to grow.


End file.
